


Until the Morning Comes

by constantly_disoriented



Series: Memories [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky needs a hug, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, I mean it's not like super super graphic but I'm still tagging it, Mentions of Blood, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, its bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 16:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantly_disoriented/pseuds/constantly_disoriented
Summary: James had nightmares.Usually, they weren’t too bad. He wouldn’t even cry out; just twitch and roll a little in bed until his eyes snapped open.But sometimes... sometimes his nightmares were different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF BLOOD, DEATH, BE ADVISED THIS IS ABOUT A GRAPHIC NIGHTMARE
> 
> This is something I pulled from my old AO3 account.

       James had nightmares.

       Usually, they weren’t too bad. He wouldn’t even cry out; just twitch and roll a little in bed until his eyes snapped open. Those dreams came and went within the span of ten minutes, and although it’d take him an hour or so to get back to sleep, he still could. They were generally about his time in Hydra, centered around his abuse and torture. Cryofreeze. Getting slapped around. Arm maintenance with that one specific handler. The things he had learned to deal with, learned how to cope with. Those memories-turned-nightmares weren’t so difficult to handle, anymore.

       But sometimes...sometimes his nightmares were different.

       Sometimes, he dreamt of the cries of children and scarlet red and agony caused by his hands.

       Sometimes, he woke up screaming, flailing about in his bed even as the static began to die down in his ears.

       Sometimes, he wondered if there ever existed a word such as "peace", or if he could afford such an expensive thing.

       The terror, that night, started as a set of colors splashed on a wall, suspiciously thick and dark. A small body lay on the ground in front of the Asset, who stood panting. That target had been hard to exterminate. They’d put up a fight.

       The Asset knew it was bleeding. It mingled on the floor with the sweat and the blood of the fallen mission (Mission: successful. Report to Handler.) before it. A deep gash in its right arm pulsed the scarlet from its veins with every beat of his heart. It would need to stitch that up in a moment; it was losing too much, already.

       But the target had blonde hair, and somehow, the Asset knew that yellow should not mix with red. Not that particular shade of yellow, at least. It was golden, shiny, crusted with thick, dark blood that came from a blow to his head.

       The Asset knew the target’s name, but it didn’t match the soft, scruffy face of the exterminated mission before it. That face didn’t belong to someone so big, so buff. That face was meant for a small, sickly body, the Asset knew. The Asset did not know why this fact bothered it.

       It didn’t matter, the Asset decided.

       The target had been exterminated.

       Mission: successful. Report to Handler.

       The Asset turned around, and there stood a small child, barely five years of age. Short curly hair was cropped above the ears. The child held a small, tattered teddy bear within their arms. The Asset stopped, and the child cocked their head, staring up with soft brown eyes; so innocent, so curious.

       “ _Get out of here._ ” The Asset said, firm and commanding. The child did not move. “ _Leave._ ”

       Still, the child did not move. The Asset grew frustrated. “ _I did not stutter. Scram._ ”

       The child smiled, teeth stained with red. “ _Can you hear them, mister?_ ”

       " _What?_ " The Asset stared at the child and, as they smiled wider, began to listen for the noise. Truth, as soon as it knew to listen, a noise appeared. At first, it was incoherent, merely the whistlings of wind and something staticky, but as the Asset concentrated, it grew louder. The noise climbed, became a chorus of voices singing the same song, the same screams, the same begging, the same desperation tugging at the non-existent heartstrings of a ~~man~~ machine. The Asset’s eyes squeezed shut.

       " _One_ ," they spoke at once, and a man with brown eyes and dark skin flashed behind his eyelids.

       " _Two_ ," a woman of short stature, with dark-set features and a solemn demeanor.

       " _Three_ ," a man, wild-eyed and fierce, with a mouth hard like stone and set as flat as a plateau.

       They spoke in numbers, counting up the people that had fallen to the Asset’s hand. The words echoed, and never had the Asset wondered if its cranium were an empty chamber, but from the way they bounced from one side of its head to the other, it was almost as if it were a hollow space, barren of thought or worry.

       " _Stop_ ," it commanded, sudden and too-loud and bordering desperation. 

       All fell silent.

       When the Asset’s eyes opened, there stood a woman in the child’s place, stomach swollen with child. The Asset blinked, surprised.

       The woman, whose brown ringlets barely brushed her shoulders, stared at the Asset. Her blue eyes were wide and fearful, and her hands folded protectively against her stomach, as if to protect her unborn. The Asset’s mouth opened to tell the woman that there was nothing to fear, that no harm was intended upon her, and a rush of crimson flew at the Asset’s face. 

       The woman lie on the ground, battered and bruised, the fear in her blue eyes extinguished by the bullet between them. The Asset could not look away from her, at the way she curled around herself, as if that would do any good. Nothing had ever tasted so bitter in its mouth, on its tongue, as her blood.

       The scene changed. The Asset held a gun to the head of a fragile-looking girl. Her bones were thin and frail, and her eyes burned bright red with tears and defiance and fear. Her lips were blue, and she shivered in the cold. The Asset noticed the small, malnourished infant in the girl’s arms, which shook like leaves even though there was no wind.

       “ _Anything. Anything but her. Please!_ ” The girl cried, heaving great sobs. The Asset did not heed her words and strengthened its grip on the gun. The girl shook harder, sobbed with somehow greater effort. The Asset did not know much, but it did know that many had begged, before, and many had died. She would be no different.

       The Asset pulled the trigger. With a flash of red, the girl fell. The baby, stirred awake by the action, began to cry.

       The Asset knelt in front of the child. The wrap around it was loose and tattered, and its skin was turning blue. The Asset supposed that needed fixing. The girl had not been his only mission.

       The Asset held out the metal hand and scooped the child up, deftly covering it in a bloodstained rag. This one would make a good Soldier, the mission report had said.

       Mission: successful. Report to Handler.

       James Buchanan Barnes woke, screaming and choking on his own sobs. He retched and heaved last night’s supper -- a small bowl of chicken soup -- into the trash can beside his bed. His sheets, stained with sweat, constricted him. He thrashed violently at them, tearing until they ripped, until they were off, until he could fall to the floor and curl to his side.

       He lie there for a long time, whimpering and rocking himself back and forth, dark hair plastered to his face and neck. He was shivering. It seemed so cold in that room, even though he was sweating.

       FRIDAY, after what felt like hours, spoke softly and gently to the crying man on the floor. “James, if you want, I can get Steve -- ”

       “No.” He croaked, shaking his head furiously. “No, please. He can’t -- I can’t let him -- That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

       FRIDAY didn’t respond, but she did turn the lighting of the room up a little so that James could see.

       Another eternity later, James felt well enough to sit up. He scrubbed at his face, which felt crusted over with salt. As soon as he thought he could, he stood and walked to the bathroom on sea legs.

       The shower he took was long and hot and sudsy. He scrubbed his skin raw, trying to rid the blood he knew wasn’t there. When even putting himself directly under the water spout began to sting, James got out of the shower and carefully patted himself dry.

       He threw on the softest clothes he could find to avoid irritating his hypersensitive skin. They were some of Steve’s old clothes, so they were worn and a little thin, but he pulled a blanket around his shoulders to protect himself from the cold. After he grabbed some orange juice from the fridge, he began walking aimlessly about the communal floor, preparing himself for a long and sleepless night.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I pulled from my old, deleted AO3 account. I had to edit it, some, but I liked it pretty much the way it was. I figured I would start reposting some things that I actually enjoyed writing from Memories.
> 
> Tell me if there are any errors or if you notice a particular character being OOC!
> 
> EDIT: 12/9/17 I fixed some of the grammatical and sentence structure mistakes, and changed the last part of the nightmare because while I like cringe, sometimes it's a bit too much.


End file.
